


The Moon Doesn't Shine That Bright

by ichigoangel



Category: Persona 5
Genre: AU, Drug Use, I mean VERY slow burn, I won't be going into details on it, Likely grossly out of character: see self-indulgent tag, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape mentions/Referenced rape, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, This is self-indulgent and absolutely an excuse to write about teenage angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 03:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichigoangel/pseuds/ichigoangel
Summary: Akira Kurusu forgot what it meant to feel. He preferred to forget about his trauma with bad decision making with his two friends who equally enjoyed poor decision making.Yusuke Kitagawa knew too well what it meant to feel, sometimes wishing he didn't. The abusive artist he lived with was hardly helpful.Akira wears long sleeves for a reason. He doesn't smile often.Yusuke channels his frustrations through his art and tries to keep a hopeful smile on his face.They cross paths and their lives change. It's definitely for the better.Also Akira has his ears pierced for no discernible reason other than you know what? I wanted to.





	1. Introduction: Akira

**Author's Note:**

> Boy I can't wait for the part where Yusuke paints a beautiful portrait of Akira because I love that trope.  
> Coming in approximately 30 chapters!  
> I don't really expect interest in this story but I figured I'd post it anyways.  
> Also, this will have a lot of chapters, but they're likely going to be very short, because my senior year(s) of college are very busy and very soul-crushing :')

The thing about going trauma is the way it changes a person. Akira knew how that felt. His childhood hadn’t been amazing, but it could have been worse. At the very least, he used to enjoy life. 

Akira hadn’t felt a thing since the arrest. Well, maybe that wasn’t true. He felt the longing to feel, felt it burn in his chest every day. He forgot what it meant to feel and it bothered him day in and day out until it became akin to an obsession. 

The arrest was bad enough. The torture was far worse. 

Those events had changed Akira. They’d changed him for the worse. He hardly recognized himself in the mirror anymore.

The moon didn’t shine nearly as bright as it used to.

-x-

Akira Kurusu flicked his cigarette and watched the ashes fall to the ground around him. His untamable mop of black hair rustled about in the gentle spring wind. The tiny park was close to his school but out of the way, so there were hardly ever other students or faculty there to shoot him a judgmental glare. He was told Shujin Academy would be his second chance, his fresh start, but he knew the truth: His parents just couldn’t be bothered with a teenage delinquent. The punch to the face he’d received from his father after being released from jail had made that clear enough. Sending him to an elite prep school with his new image was going to be more of a curse than the blessing his parents passed it off to be. In the end, he didn’t even blame his parents for passing him off. 

His first cigarette had been an act of defiance typical of a bitter teenager. If everyone was going to pass him off as a criminal, he may as well fit the image a little better. He didn’t like the taste. Never intended to finish the pack he’d stolen from his parent’s bedroom. But after his first came his second, and after his second came his third. After all, as much as he convinced himself the constant stares and murmurs didn’t bother him, he knew himself better than that. The taste was awful, but the calming effect was too good to pass up. His addictive personality was just another after-effect of his arrest.  
Akira had been lost in thought until one of his two friends appeared. Even shitty people managed have a couple friends. 

“Yo. Hit me.” Ryuji Sakamoto plopped himself down beside Akira on the stone bench he’d been occupying. Saying nothing, Akira tossed Ryuji a cigarette and held out his lighter. It was red, just like his hoodie. It was a size too big and said “JOKER” in black block lettering. 

The two seventeen-year olds didn’t have that much in common, but they had enough. The school’s faculty and students hated them, as did most people who knew their names. Joker had stopped trying to care about others, but Ryuji was definitely the closest thing he had to a friend at this point. Ryuji also had a seemingly endless stash of weed, which he was always willing to share. Ryuji had been the only person to even go near Akira on his first day at Shujin and had just kind of hung around since.

“Thanks man. What’s up?” Ryuji asked between drags. 

“Not much.” Came Akira’s short reply. 

“Talkative as ever.” Ryuji’s tone had hints of annoyance; he liked talking a lot more than his black-haired counterpart did. 

“Yep.”

“So, what you doing tonight? It’s Friday. Wanna get fucked up? I wanna get fucked up.”

“Bad day?” Akira mused, although he wasn’t against Ryuji’s suggestion. 

“Just that fuckin’ dick hole again.” Akira knew who the blonde was talking about; Kamoshida was the epitome of a human pile of shit. He reminded Akira a lot of the guy whom he’d punched in the first place. However, Ryuji had been the one to punch this asshole and suffer the consequences. He doubted, however, that the consequences of Ryuji’s act had been quite as severe as his had been.

The arrest had been bad, but it was far from all that happened. 

“What’d he do now?” 

“Dude, have you seen Shiho lately? She’s fucking covered head to toe in bruises. Shit’s not right. He’s also threatening to fail me again, but…that’s not really news.” He sighed. Ryuji didn’t have a criminal record like Akira, but people sure did treat him like it. Ryuji had a tough shell, but Akira could tell the shit he went through bothered him daily.

Boy, did he know that feeling.

“He’ll get fired eventually.” Akira’s statement was half-hearted at best. Ryuji had tried to help Shiho, she denied abuse. Kamoshida denied abuse. The other students denied abuse. Even Ann Takamaki denied abuse, and she knew it better than anyone. Akira knew that fate didn’t seem to care about helping others. 

“Not good enough.” Ryuji practically shouted in frustration. “Guess there’s really nothing we can do, though. Not without me getting expelled and you breaking your probation.”

Akira almost laughed. His and Ryuji’s conduct together was rarely legal, especially for two seventeen-year olds. 

The talk of Kamoshida ended abruptly when Ann Takamaki herself showed up and wordlessly sat next to Ryuji. Her blonde twintails bounced as she sat down and she snapped her fingers at Akira, signaling her need for a cigarette. 

“You two are going to start paying me for these.” 

“Whatever, you have the easiest access to them.” That was technically true. He worked a couple times a week at a dingy convenient store in his neighborhood that had hardly any customers. One of his only coworkers was a college freshman who very obviously had a thing for him. He wasn’t interested in her, but the amount of free packs she would buy him was welcome. 

“Like you couldn’t get them if you wanted.” Akira retorted to Ann. Ann was a model and had serious connections. She didn’t have to bother getting cigs, however, because her model acquaintances were all in their late twenties and addicted to coke. They always passed some onto her. The parties those models threw were insane.

“Whatever. What are we doing tonight?”

“Getting blasted. You?”

“Sounds good to me.” 

Akira enjoyed his time with Ann and Ryuji. They were good people who were battling their own demons and handling them about as well as he did. They had an unspoken agreement not to talk about their personal problems. They drank together. They smoked together. They had tried their first line of coke together. Aside from Ann’s model acquaintances, they were three people who had no one else in their lives. It was nice. They ignored the bruise on Ann’s cheek that hadn’t been there the day before. They ignored the dark circles under each other’s eyes from sleepless nights. They even ignored the sight when Akira’s sweatshirt sleeves rode up too far on his arms. They weren’t doing well in school. They weren’t trying to. Neither Ann nor Ryuji knew what happened after Akira got arrested, just that he’d been arrested for punching a belligerent drunk. 

From the outside looking in, they just looked like a trio of carefree rebels.

In reality, it was a miracle Akira’d dragged himself out of bed that morning. He lost a little bit of will by the day. 

If only drugs and blood let him feel anything at all, was it really worth it? 

He sat pondering that as Ryuji and Ann made the night’s plans for the three of them. He sat leaning against the bench, brow furrowed, eyes tired, frown deepening naturally as he lost himself in thought. He absentmindedly played with the little silver hoop hanging from his ear. He probably looked like the living definition of melancholy. 

At least, that’s what the artist sitting across from the trio in the tiny park thought. He sat alone at his bench, his only company a sketchbook and set of pencils. He had just begun sketching a portrait. He was wearing a white and grey plaid button-down with a pair of fitted black jeans. His hair was tucked neatly behind his ear so it didn’t get in his way.

As the artist sketched, Akira looked up; Ann had nudged him, and he lost his train of thought. As he looked up his eyes locked with the artist. The artist had a flicker of annoyance in his eyes for a split-second before his eyes softened, and he shot Akira a small, almost apologetic smile. 

Akira looked away. 

The artist turned the page in his sketchbook, leaving his sketch only half-finished.

Maybe one day he’d have the chance to finish it.


	2. Introduction: Yusuke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to Yusuke's side of the story.

Yusuke Kitagawa’s bruises were dark and tender. Madarame may have been getting older, but his hitting hand seemed hardly affected. The seventeen-year-old artist’s body was sometimes more purple than flesh colored. Yusuke was Madarame’s last remaining student, making him the sole target of Madarame’s ever-escalating wrath; However, Madarame was all Yusuke had. His mother died when he was young and he had no idea who his father was. Yusuke had lived with the artist for over ten years now. 

It hadn’t all been bad. When he first became Madarame’s student, he was showered with affection. He was as artistically inclined as his own mother had been, instantly making him Madarame’s little star.

And then Madarame developed artist’s block.

And then Madarame stopped making any of his own art, now solely relying on his students to keep him rich and famous.

And then the emotional abuse began.

And then his students began to leave.

And then the physical abuse began in stride with alcoholism. 

And then the rest of his students left.

And then Yusuke was all that was left. 

And then Yusuke’s art was no longer enough. Madarame was known for his “remarkable diversity” after he began stealing all of his students’ work. While Yusuke was undeniably talented, he couldn’t replicate the art styles of dozens of individuals. It was impossible for anyone to do. 

But that wasn’t good enough. 

Yusuke wasn’t good enough. 

The thought lingered with him every waking moment. Never good enough. No matter what he sketched, what he painted, no matter how much love he put into his work; it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been good enough for years now. 

Yusuke gingerly placed a band-aid over his bleeding cheek. Madarame slapping him around on a near daily basis was nothing new; glass beer bottles being thrown at him, however, was definitely new. The bottle had been aimed square at Yusuke’s face; really, he was lucky the somewhat small cut on his cheek was the only damage. At least his recent black eye had healed, considering Madarame tended to keep him in the house if Yusuke’s wounds were too noticeable to the public eye. The bastard may have been a drunk, but he was plenty aware his actions were wrong.

Compassionate by nature, Yusuke couldn’t help but feel bad for Madarame and his decline. The man had at one point actually been a brilliant artist and a worthy mentor. Once he began declining as an artist and replacing his art with alcohol, however, the man became a living nightmare. Yusuke’s personal nightmare.

He wanted to leave. Of course he did. But Madarame really was all he had. There was nowhere else to go, nor anyone else for him to go to in seek of aid. The police? They would never believe a seventeen-year-old accusing someone of such fame and affluence. Nor would anyone else, for that matter. Even though some signs of his abuse were apparent, wearing long sleeves and pants year-round covered up a strong majority of them. His cut (one of many sure to come) could easily be attributed to an accident. If Yusuke had too serious of an injury, he wasn’t to go out: including to school. The school was incredibly lenient with him, being fully aware Yusuke was Madarame’s student. 

He was trapped, and at this point he’d accepted his place in life. He accepted his bruised and battered body. He accepted his tired eyes and sleepless nights. He accepted the tears he shed while working on his art late into the night. He accepted that his art would never be good enough, but he would never give it up. Not just because he had to for Madarame, but because it was the one thing that kept him sane. 

The spring air came in through his window and he sighed deeply as he threw the band-aid wrapper away. He needed some fresh air, and Madarame wasn’t home to interrogate him on where he was going. He would deal with Madarame when he got back. Grabbing his sketchbook and a handful of pencils, he left his room and made his way past the living room littered with beer bottles and cigarette ashes. Yusuke noted that Madarame had never bothered to pick up the bottle he’d thrown at him. 

He decided to visit the small park in Aoyama-Itchome he’d been to a handful of times, despite it being out of the way. There was hardly ever anyone there, save for a trio of Shujin Academy students that always seemed to be there. It was a nice, quiet park and was great for him to sit down and focus on his work. There was a show coming up, and he didn’t yet have enough pieces for Madarame to display. 

The park was the same as usual when he got there. The Shujin students were sitting at their usual bench talking quietly amongst themselves, cigarettes hanging loosely from their hands. Yusuke ignored them and sat down at the only other bench in the park, opening his sketchbook to its first empty page. He had no clue what to draw, which bothered him. His inspiration had been slipping lately, replaced with crushing thoughts of his own inadequacies. He used to be full of optimism and spirit, even with the abuse, but it was getting harder by the day. He subconsciously rose his hand to his cheek and ran it over his band-aid, feeling a slight sting. He stared at the blank paper. He put his pencil to it, halfway hoping his hand would move on its own. 

It didn’t, and time was time was ticking. Frustrated by his lack of inspiration, he turned his attention to the only other people in the park. He recognized the blonde girl as a model. He only knew who she was because he’d worked with various models from her agency for his pieces before. She was locked in conversation with the blonde guy seated next to her, but Yusuke couldn’t make out what they were saying. He turned his attention to the last person on the bench, whose face was half hidden between his messy black hair and slightly oversized glasses. He seemed lost in thought, slouching against the bench with his arms crossed. 

Something about him was striking to Yusuke. His expression was grim between his furrowed brow and pursed lips, and Yusuke decided that whatever he was thinking, it was grim. His aura had a certain melancholy about it that was somehow fascinating to Yusuke.

And suddenly Yusuke had it. He hurriedly began to sketch, praying the black-haired boy would stay still until he was finished. He finally had his inspiration: melancholy. It was perfect. It was a feeling many people knew well, himself included. The melancholy of being stuck, of being unable to force a change of hand in life. That was exactly what he felt from his subject. The expression in his subject’s eyes was the hardest to transfer to paper, but Yusuke certainly tried. 

He was only halfway finished, however, when his subject moved when the model tried to get his attention. He cursed silently and realized the black-haired boy was now looking right at him. Yusuke gave him a smile, and the boy abruptly looked away. Yusuke didn’t blame him; the other wasn’t exactly aware he was being drawn. Even so, he was disappointed. The few minutes he’d sketched had been his best in quite some time. 

His victory was short lived, however. All he had was a hasty sketch. He needed more, much more before he hit his deadline. He needed to be more. He had to be what the public expected Madarame to be, and the pressure was wearing him down. He didn’t know how many more full exhibits he could handle on his own. More importantly, he didn’t want to find out what would happen to him if he couldn’t complete his work for Madarame. 

He turned the page in his sketchbook, but it was a fruitless effort. He watched as the trio got up and prepared to leave. He was admittedly envious of them. It’d been a long time since he’d had anyone he considered a friend. Acquaintance, even. The trio seemed close to one another. He felt a pang of longing in his heart. 

He hoped he’d have a chance to meet them one day. 

For now, all he could do was try to stay afloat. One day, one art piece, one bruise at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Thank you for reading. It's going to be a little slow going for a chapter or two yet but I swear these two will interact soon, I'm just...still trying to figure out how. Right now the most likely path from here is Ann talks with Yusuke at the next art exhibit since they're the most likely to meet naturally, followed by Ann inviting Yusuke to hang with them, or something.   
> Also coming up next time: the trio partying, Akira developing an addiction in addition to self-harm, and more Yusuke angst. Why am I putting time into this.   
> Also, if anybody actually starts to follow this story, expect future updates to come on a weekly basis at best. I just happened to have this weekend off of work.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is my first time writing a fic in over three years.
> 
> This fic is going to have heavy mentions/talks of self-harm because this is a personal project I wanted to tackle. I highly doubt there will be any readers here who have read my works from when I was writing Ereri for the SNK fandom, but on the off chance there is, they'll remember that at the time I wrote it I was a very heavy self-harmer and my longest fic had extremely graphic self-harm depictions. This fic is going to be a lot lighter in that aspect (at least, not as graphic descriptively). I'm over three years clean now and am using this fic as more of a way to vent and portray the melancholy of being a self-harmer and the struggle to stop it, even after others found out about it. There's a lot of myself in my depiction of Akira, which is why I consider this fic so self-indulgent and why I note that the chances of me going heavily out of character are highly likely. 
> 
> Also, disclaimer: don't self-harm. No matter what hell you've been through, the hell you'll put yourself through adding that on top of everything else is absolutely not worth it. It's not. It's a nightmare and you'll be doing yourself a favor by not trying it. This fic is in NO WAY an endorsement of self-harm and it's also not a romanticization of it. 
> 
> Now that that chunk of text is done with, if you made it through to this point, thank you! I hope you liked this short first chapter. 
> 
> Also, I really have no clue where this story is going. At all. I kind of know what ending I want but that's it.
> 
> Tumblr account is vydeseny. Do people post that with their stories anymore? How does this work? I was 17 last time I wrote one of these things and now I'm in my twenties. I'm old now.


End file.
